As soon as they had finished breakfast Arsdale was off.
"I 'll leave you two to hunt out new stars as long as that occupation does n't seem to bore you. I 'll be back for dinner."
Miss Arsdale looked a bit worried and questioned Donaldson with her eyes.
"He 'll be all right," the latter assured her. "Good Lord, a man with an idea like that is safe anywhere. It's the best thing in the world for him."
A little later Donaldson went up-stairs to his room. He took out his wallet and counted his money. He had over four hundred dollars. At noon forty-eight hours would be remaining to him. He still had the ample means of a millionaire for his few needs.
He was as cool as a man computing what he could spend on a summer vacation. He was not affected in the slightest by the details of death or by the mere act of dying itself. He was of the stuff which in a righteous cause leads a man to face a rifle with a smile. He would have made a good soldier. The end meant nothing horrible in itself. It meant only the relinquishing of this bright sky and that still choicer gift below.
He rose abruptly and came down-stairs again to the girl, impatient at being away from her a minute. She was waiting for him.
"This," he said, "is to be our holiday. I think we had better go into the country. I should like to go back to Cranton. Is it too far?"
"Not too far," she answered. "But the memories of the bungalow—"
"I had forgotten about that. It does n't count with the green fields, does it? We can avoid the house, but I should like to visit the orchard and ride behind the old white horse again."